


The Navarro Experience

by iridescentglow



Category: Veronica Mars (TV)
Genre: M/M, Marijuana
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-07-09
Updated: 2005-07-09
Packaged: 2017-12-23 13:56:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/927285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iridescentglow/pseuds/iridescentglow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I figured you wanted the whole Navarro experience. Bad neighborhood, sneakin' around. Isn't that all part of your warped little fantasy?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Navarro Experience

Logan parked his car at the end of Weevil's street. His eyes shifted uneasily, taking in the scene before him; the rundown houses and unkempt yards. A dog barked, like a warning. Logan's fingers bounced against the steering wheel.

"Would you get the fuck out of the car?" Weevil exclaimed, the palm of his hand smacking the warm metal of the car door. Nearby, a pair of kids who were playing on the street corner looked up. "No one's gonna steal your fucking car," Weevil continued impatiently. "Not unless I ask them to, anyway." One of the kids laughed. A slight smile spread across Weevil's lips, too, as Logan finally slid out of his car.

It was dusk and the white heat of the day was fading into a dull warmth; a faint smell of smoke rolled through the dry air. Logan walked hurriedly by Weevil's side, still looking anxiously around them, as if he were the world's worst drug dealer.

Weevil snorted derisively. "Are you cold, man?" He swiped at the black jacket Logan had zipped up to his neck. "You think wearing all the clothing you own is gonna protect you from the _bullets_?"

Logan swatted his hands away. He frowned slightly and then recovered himself. "I thought it might be cold in hell this time of year," he replied snidely. He smiled sourly at Weevil, but began unzipping his jacket. Weevil could see the sweat pooling at his collarbones.

They came to a stop in front of Weevil's house. Weevil waited for the obligatory comment. He didn't have to wait long. "I see the Extreme Makeover team just left," Logan said mockingly. "I'm _loving_ the post- Fast and the Furious _sleaze_ look you've gone for." Logan held out his hands, his fingers forming a frame, through which he squinted at the house in mock-scrutiny.

Weevil rolled his eyes. "Keep your voice down, and get the fuck inside." He moved forward, taking Logan roughly by the arm.

"In America, it's customary to use the front door . . ." Logan pointed out, as Weevil dragged him along the narrow strip of land to the side of the house.

Weevil ignored him. He halted beneath a window. Nimbly, he climbed onto the stack of crates that were leaned against the outside wall. Weevil was aware of Logan's gaze fixed on his back, the other boy's eyes tracing the shift of his muscles. He reached up and ran his fingers along the crack beneath the guttering, extracting a small key from its hiding place.

Weevil inserted the key into the window lock and, with practiced ease, he climbed into his bedroom through the opened window. Logan was starting to twitch again, in that unmistakable way that all his rich boy bravado couldn't conceal. Indifferent, Weevil motioned for him to climb through the window.

Logan pulled himself up onto the ledge. Weevil could hear his ragged breathing—suddenly he imagined his hand moving past the waistband of his pants; Weevil wondered how Logan would sound then. Hauling himself through the window, Logan completed his tumble into Weevil's bedroom. In his mind he had probably imagined it as a nonchalant flip. But instead of landing gracefully on his feet, Logan ended up sprawled on the carpet beneath the window.

" _Shit!_ " he said loudly.

Weevil choked on his laughter. "Shut the fuck up," he said with unmistakable amusement.

" _Ow_." Logan rubbed at his elbow, looking petulantly down at the raw, red mark.

Weevil grinned. "If you wanted carpet burns, I coulda showed you more fun ways."

Logan glowered at him. "Why are we sneaking in, anyway? Don't want your grandma to know I'm here?" He paused, and then added with a leer: "Afraid she might hear me screaming your name?— _oh yeah, **ride** me, baby!_ " Logan cast a sly, sidelong look in Weevil's direction, as he half-crawled across the carpet. He hauled himself up onto the bed and arranged himself in a sprawl that Weevil couldn't help but read as suggestive. Logan shrugged out of his jacket and kicked off his shoes comfortably.

"My grandma's in San Bernardino for the week," Weevil said.

Logan's irritation flared. "So why the hell did I just break my fucking neck climbing in the window?"

"I figured you wanted the whole Navarro experience," Weevil said coolly. "Bad neighborhood, sneakin' around. Isn't that all part of your warped little fantasy?" 

Logan slumped back onto Weevil's bed. He did not reply, and Weevil felt sure he had hit the nail on the head.

The uncomfortable pause stretched into a longer silence. Through the open window, Logan could hear the whisper of music; a car stereo cranked up, probably. Red Hot Chilli Peppers. That old song, the one people sang along to without realizing what it was about. Fucked up people in a bad part of town—Logan's lips twisted briefly into a smile.

He glanced around Weevil's room. It was the shoebox of a room he had expected; every inch of white paint wallpapered over with posters. The most remarkable thing about the room was how jammed with stuff it was: books and CDs were stacked haphazardly on the floor where the shelves had run out; mementos, keepsakes, _junk_ spilled from every surface. Logan's friends' rooms, his own room—they didn't look this way. They were subjected to the rule of feng shui-obsessed mothers and neatfreak housekeepers who "don't get paid to sift through your shit". Weevil's bedroom was a living, breathing space; an extension of _him_. Toy cars, hundreds of them, were piled on top of the chest of drawers; clearly untouched since his childhood, but kept nonetheless. A section of wall beside the bed was crammed with photographs; smiling snapshots of people fighting for space. Logan recognized a few of the figures in the pictures; bikers caught off-guard, laughing or goofing around. Suddenly he felt depressed; the room was too claustrophobic . . . too _full_.

"Got anything to drink?" Logan said, breaking the silence. He squinted at Weevil, ". . . tequila?"—his face cracked into a mock-jovial smile—"it makes me _happy_ . . ."

"Sorry," Weevil said snidely. "I'm all out."

Logan watched as he moved to the closet. He reached inside, fumbling past yet more accumulated _stuff_ (basketballs, worn-out sneakers, tired magazines—), finally producing a small tin box. He tossed it onto the bed, where it sprang open, spilling a bag of weed and some papers into Logan's lap.

"Best I can do," Weevil offered, taking a seat at the other end of the bed.

The corners of Weevil's mouth twitched as Logan's face flooded with glee. Clumsily, Logan began to roll a joint. He did it quickly, concentrating hard, and produced the finished joint with a flourish of triumph. Weevil was about to dig out some matches, but Logan lit the joint using a silver lighter that he slipped from his jacket pocket.

Logan wrapped his lips around the roll of paper with something like reverence. He tilted his head, looking Weevil in the eye as he inhaled. He coughed a little—Weevil couldn't suppress a smile—but held in most of the smoke. To Weevil's faint surprise, Logan immediately passed the joint to him. Weevil toked smoothly, still holding Logan in his gaze. Back and forth they went, developing an odd rhythm unbroken by talking. What was there to talk about, anyway? Weevil's buzz was making the world fray agreeably, reducing the significance of everything except the movement of Logan's hands, their fingers tangling together as they passed the joint back and forth, back and forth . . .

The joint burned down, its glowing end resting in the crook of Logan's fingers. Weevil was vaguely aware that night had fallen. The music had changed, a low thrum of R&B from far away. The baseline thudded to a stop, and in the brief lapse before it was reset (new CD, different track—), that was when Logan began to kiss him. He crawled forward across the bed, his hands sliding up Weevil's thighs. This was the moment Weevil should have pushed him away, slammed a fist into Logan's chest. Instead he felt the stirrings of desire, an irresistible tug in his groin. He angled his face as Logan sank down on top of him. Warm mouth, roving hands—and _goddamn_ , if he couldn't _taste_ that smirk.

Weevil could feel the restlessness in Logan hum across his skin. He grasped Logan's shoulders, trying to hold him still, but Logan writhed free of his grasp. He pushed at Weevil's torso, moulding their bodies together. The weed had made Logan playful. His kisses strayed from Weevil's mouth, the tip of his tongue dragging intermittently across the surface of Weevil's skin. Weevil felt vibrations against the curve of his neck, and he realized that Logan was singing under his breath. " _I don't ever wanna feel_ —" he stretched out the final word and failed to add the rest of the line. His head bowed lower, teeth razoring lightly across Weevil's collarbones.

Logan's hands slipped under Weevil's wife-beater; he twisted the fabric as he yanked it up over Weevil's head. Weevil wondered snidely how long he'd been waiting to do that; how many times the other boy had jerked off to the thought of rubbing his fingers over the inked skin of Weevil's chest. Logan's tongue was running patterns across the moist skin of his abdomen now, working steadily downward. The weed had made Weevil mellow enough to wait—not to appear impatient; not to shove his cock into Logan's mouth rightthisfuckingsecond; not to _beg_. Nonetheless, his hand clamped over the back of Logan's head, his fingers pushing against his scalp. Logan's hair was more unkempt than usual; it looked like he hadn't had it cut in a while, and it had been prodded into a pretentious Morrissey quiff. Weevil yanked at his hair just hard enough that Logan's teeth sank into a patch of skin just shy of his navel. 

Weevil groaned involuntarily. Logan pulled back, tracing with his tongue the shallow indentations his teeth had left on Weevil's skin. He tugged open the buttons on Weevil's pants. Weevil's bucked slightly, moving his to hips meet Logan's fingers as they pushed inside his boxers. Logan paused to give him a look—eyes narrowed, the beginnings of a smirk curling his lips—before he moved his head to swallow Weevil's cock.

Weevil closed his eyes, allowing sensation to take over from sight. The distant music continued to hum at the back of his consciousness; the night air felt warm and heavy; and a hint of their pot smoke lingered, despite the open window. Logan's blowjob was messy—and the better for it. Weevil would bet good money it was his first, although he couldn't presume just how well acquainted Logan was with Dick Casablancas. Most of the blowjobs Weevil received were precise and gratifying, over quickly and given by girls who couldn't quite conceal their boredom. The silent prompt of, _is it my turn yet?_ given with their upturned eyes as they spat delicately. Logan was all experimentation and boyish enthusiasm, glorying in the idea of making Weevil come—hard and in his mouth.

" _Jesus_ —" the word escaped Weevil's mouth. Logan's name rested on the tip of his tongue. He ground his teeth hard against his bottom lip, silencing himself as he came.

Logan couldn't hide the slight look of surprise as he came up for air. He dragged the back of his hand across his mouth, shock fading into something like smug satisfaction. He pounced on Weevil for a kiss, tasting bitter and rich as his tongue slipped inside Weevil's mouth. He pulled away just as abruptly, falling back into his original sprawl at the head of Weevil's bed.

"You do know how to show a boy a good time," he said, although the lightness in his tone sounded forced.

"You have no idea," Weevil replied, hearing the same tinny ring echoed in his own voice.

Weevil was about to say something else; kick him out, ask him to stay—he honestly didn't know which. But that was when Logan Echolls started to cry.

Logan muttered something under his breath, and Weevil heard the frustration and mortification filling the incoherent words. He turned his face away, brushing at the tears that leaked from his eyes. He brought the heel of his hand to his cheek, wiping the tears onto the skin of his wrist. Without thinking, Weevil reached over and took his hand away. He bent his head, his mouth opening against the bone of Logan's wrist. He dragged his tongue slowly across Logan's forearm, tasting the sharp combination of salt and sweat.

The tears were gone as quickly as they'd come, although Logan's eyes remained glassy and moist. Weevil dropped his hand. He reached past Logan, grabbing at the box that held his weed. He rolled himself another joint and realized that his hands were shaking. He flattened his palms against the duvet and took a deep breath.

Logan had taken out his lighter again. He was flicking it intermittently, like a child playing with fire. Weevil reached out and took it, lighting his joint. This time when he toked, it was without any enjoyment. He just needed the world to fade away again; he just needed to stop caring why Logan-fucking-Echolls couldn't control himself. Frowning, he handed the joint to Logan, firmly placing it in his grasp. Logan toked badly and coughed hard.

He bowed his head, breathing heavily. "Shit, shit, _shit_ ," he muttered. "Look"—he raised his voice—"look, are we gonna have sex? Are we gonna . . ." He trailed off, his eyes fixed on the lighter that was still in Weevil's hand. He snatched it back, suddenly, and then refocused on Weevil's face.

"Never shoulda come here," Logan said at last, with the ghost of a smile. He shifted.

"No," Weevil said truthfully. "You can stay, though."

Logan squinted at him. He was flicking the lighter again, brief flares on and off on and off. "Yeah," he said, like it was an answer.


End file.
